Dangerous Lover (7 page)

He looked at her and finally, he nodded. “All right.”

“All right?”

“Yeah. I'll come to the cabin with you. I don't see anyone making me any better offers right now, do you?”

Her smile was quick and unplanned and it damn near floored him when she flashed it, because it reached her eyes, and made them sparkle. “I'm
really
glad.”

Yeah, and he knew why. She wanted him. Was as turned on by him as he was by her. And who the hell was he kidding? He'd taken her up on the offer mostly because he was pretty sure he'd get laid before it was over. And he could hardly wait.

She turned the corner and took the dirt road, which wound uphill, through ever thicker woods. “I know I can help you figure this out.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

She smiled even bigger that time. “I'm a Witch,” she said, as if it made all the sense in the world.

It was really a crying shame she was a card-carrying lunatic, he thought. A
crying
shame.

 

Vidalia Brand couldn't sleep. She'd tossed and she'd turned and she'd worried for hours, and finally decided she couldn't wait any longer to have a long-overdue talk with her youngest daughter. She'd raised her girls well. Too well for this nonsense. Well, she would be damned herself before she'd stand by and watch her youngest headed straight for hellfire. Not without a fight.

She flung back her covers, got out of bed and stood for just a moment, looking at herself in the full-length mirror and feeling way older than she ever had. Her nightgown was flannel. Her bathrobe, terry. Her slippers were fuzzy blue ones, and her hair was pulled into a long, still-black ponytail on one side of her head.

When had she stopped wearing slinky satin nighties and slippers with heels and clingy red robes? It had been awhile. It had been awhile since she'd had any reason to wear them, anyone to wear them for. For a time, it had been enough to wear them for herself, to remind herself that she was a woman, not just a mother or the matriarch of the Oklahoma branch of the family. But a woman.

And then, slowly, it had kind of stopped mattering so much.

She sighed, and refocused on her daughter, the current problem of the day. She knew Selene was awake. She'd heard the sounds of her steps in the house for the past fifteen minutes or so, first in the kitchen and then in her bedroom. It was a good time to talk. And yes, maybe she'd made a mistake in having Reverend Jackson waiting for her when she got home. Maybe it would have been better to talk to her privately first. Witchcraft. What was that child thinking? If that wasn't enough to throw a God-fearing parent off track, Vi didn't know what was. So she'd messed up. But hell, she'd never claimed to be perfect.

Yanking the bathrobe's sash tighter, she opened her bedroom door, and strolled to the kitchen to make hot cocoa. Maybe if she showed up at her daughter's door with an offering, the way she used to when Selene was little and pouting over some dead 'possum she'd seen along the roadside on the school bus ride home or something—maybe then they could have a civil conversation.

Selene had always been different. Always.

Vidalia filled the kettle from the tap, and set it on the burner, then turned to the cupboard to get down mugs, and set them on the table.

And that's when she saw the sheet of paper, folded once and resting on top of a book on the kitchen table. Frowning, she glanced toward the stairs. She could still hear Selene moving around up there. What on earth?

Unfolding the note, she read the words in Selene's elegant handwriting.

Vidalia's hand was shaking as she folded the note and glanced at the book on the table.
The Truth About Wicca.

“Nonsense.”

A thump from upstairs made her look up sharply, and then she frowned. If Selene had left, then who was in her room?

She glanced at the hook near the door, where Selene's jacket had been hanging. It was gone.

Her brows drew together as she noticed the marks on the door, and the fact that it wasn't closed tightly.

Swallowing hard, she turned, opened a drawer, and took out the metal mallet she used to tenderize beef. Then she moved toward the phone, picked it up and hit the preprogrammed number 1. Maya's number. She and Caleb were closest, after all.

Maya picked up and answered with a sleepy “Hello?”

“Someone is in the house.”

“Huh?” Then, with alarm in her tone, “Mom? Caleb, wake up, it's mom.”

“Send Caleb down. And call the police. Lock your doors and hold your babies, honey.”

She hung up before Maya could reply, then she turned, and started for the stairway. She supposed a wiser woman would just slip outside, or hide in a closet until the intruder left. And she was wise, most of the time. Right now, though, righteous indignation was taking wisdom's place. Some intruder was in her house. Her
home.
No one messed with Vidalia Brand, and the son of a gun upstairs was going to find that out in no uncertain terms.

She started up the stairs and got halfway up them before a man appeared at the top, his face covered by a ski mask. She had only a moment to take him in. He wore gloves, but she glimpsed pale skin at one wrist, just below the cuff of his dark shirt sleeve. Dark clothes. Nothing remarkable. Large man, though it was tough to judge. She glanced at the wall behind him and made a mental note that his head was about level with the tiny tear in the wallpaper there.

And then her time for observing was done, because he came barreling down the stairs, hitting her full force before she could bring her mallet down on his head as he so richly deserved. He hit her hard with both hands, and she flew off the stairs—literally
flew.
She landed with a huge impact, heard furniture breaking beneath her, thought
God, not my coffee table.
Then she heard footsteps racing through the house, the door slamming, a car squealing away.

And what seemed like about a half a second later, Caleb was kneeling beside her. “For God's sakes, Vidalia—What happened?”

She lifted her head and speared her son-in-law with her eyes. “Don't you take the Lord's name in vain in my house, young man.” And then she passed out.

 

“This is it.”

Cory—he was beginning to feel comfortable thinking about himself by that name—eyed the log cabin in the headlights' glow. It was small, square, with dark-green shingles on its roof. The shutters that flanked the windows were green as well, each with a pine-tree-shaped cutout in its center. The driveway was barely one. More like a worn spot on the forest floor. A pair of massive antlers were mounted above the entry door.

The woman beside him made a disgusted sound, and he glanced her way quickly. “Not up to your standards or something?” he asked. The place was exactly what he would have expected of a hunting cabin.

She lifted her brows. “My standards? Wow, you have a lot to learn about me, you know that, Cory?”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like that I'm as content in a pup tent as I would be in a five-star hotel. More content, actually. The cabin is fine. It's the dead animal parts as a decorating theme I don't like.” She nodded toward the antlers over the door.

It took him a minute to shift his gaze there, because when she nodded like that, her corn-silk hair fell over her face, and she had to push it back with one hand. And for some reason his gaze got stuck on her face, on the way she grimaced at the antlers.

Then he managed to look back to the rack again.

“Poor freaking deer,” she muttered.

“Elk,” he said.

“How do you know?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Good question.”

She frowned at him for a moment, then sighed and got out of the car, hauling her backpack from the rear seat and slinging it over her shoulder. “I guess we might as well go in. It's too late to seek alternative options tonight. But I swear, if there are animals' heads mounted on the walls, I'm sleeping outside.”

He nodded, and told himself it was pretty clear she'd never been up here before, or if she had, it had been awhile. He didn't think she was faking her reaction to the elk rack. And he saw further evidence of it when she picked up three or four rocks from the ground near the door, before locating the one that wasn't a rock at all, and took the key from within it. Then she unlocked the door and stepped into the utter darkness inside.

“Wait a sec. I don't know where anything is here, but—” He heard movement, the sound of a zipper. Then there was a click, and she was aiming a flashlight beam around the place.

He spotted a kerosene lamp. There was a book of matches beside it, so he went to it and lit it. As he did so, she was lighting another, and pretty soon they had four of the lamps burning and filling the place with soft, yellow light.

No animal heads graced the walls, he noted, and was grateful for reasons he couldn't have named. Just relieved on her behalf, he guessed. They'd walked into a large living room with a cobblestone fireplace as its focal point, and comfortable-looking furniture all around.

“Tessa said the place was well-stocked. Are you hungry?”

“Starved. Who is Tessa?”

She stiffened enough to tell him she hadn't meant to mention the name. “She's a friend of mine. This is her husband's cabin.”

“I see. Is she one of the other nude-nymphets from the woods?”

She sent him a frown. “We were not nude.”

“Nude enough.”

Shaking her head she said, “I'm not telling anyone who else was out there with me, so there's no point in asking.”

“I don't need to ask. You just told me.”

She rolled her eyes. “I didn't tell you anything. And I'm not going to.”

“Then you admit you have something to hide.”

“I don't have a thing to hide, Cory. But some secrets just aren't mine to tell. I promised those women I would keep their names out of it, and I keep my promises. Now, why don't you start that fire and I'll go see what I can find us to eat.”

She walked away, across the room and through a darkened doorway, carrying one of the kerosene lamps with her. The kernel of a thought came into his mind that she suddenly seemed to know her way around this place pretty well, but before it became a fully developed suspicion, she reappeared in the doorway, looking sheepish.

“Nothing to eat in the bedroom,” she said.

“Oh.” She shot his newborn theory down with a self-deprecating grin that did something to his insides. “Try that one,” he suggested, pointing out another doorway, at the opposite side of the room.

“On it.” She crossed the room in front of him. “Holler if you need me.”

He watched her go, and for a second, the image of her, dancing half-naked in the forest, wearing nothing but a colorful cloth tied at her waist, that long silvery-blond hair falling around her shoulders, grabbed hold of his mind and wouldn't let go.

He took a mental grip on himself, reminded himself he could be fantasizing about his would-be killer. Or his would-be killer's accomplice. At the very least, he was fantasizing about a woman with a slight mental break from reality.

She thought she was a Witch, for heaven's sake.

B
y the time Selene had fixed him canned beef stew and located some crackers, her guest had a huge fire burning in the fireplace, and the living room was toasty warm and much brighter than it had been before. He was sitting on the sofa, staring pensively into the flames.

For just a moment, she paused in the doorway and looked at him. He had a strong jawline, gorgeous cheekbones and soft eyes that were muddled brown and green—eyes that could melt a woman with the right look, she thought. Though he hadn't sent that look her way—yet. He was still shirtless, and his chest drew her gaze almost irresistibly. It was a strong chest. Not bulging with muscle, but lean and tight. Nice shoulders, too, especially undressed. Smooth skin. Tapered waist. Taut abs that made her fingers itch to run over them. Looking at his belly was as erotic to her as watching a porno film would have been, though she couldn't be sure, having never watched one.

But she could imagine. That belly—well, the parts not covered in bandages, at least—So hard and smooth, and flat, and the hairs under his belly button making a dark path downward until they vanished behind his button and zipper. And damn, she wanted to touch him there.

“Do I pass inspection, then?”

She jerked her gaze upward, and felt her face heat. “Caught me, huh? Well, hell, Cory, if you don't like me looking, you should put on a shirt. 'Cause, um, I'm not having much luck keeping my focus elsewhere.”

“So who said I didn't like you looking?”

She allowed her smile to erupt, and then she crossed the room to set the bowl of stew on the coffee table in front of him. “It's hot.”

“You can say that again.”

“I meant the stew.” She looked at him, his face, not his abs. “Why don't you go check out the bedroom, find a shirt. I'll get some of the astral gunk out of this place while your stew cools off.”

“Astral gunk?”

“I can tell just by sitting here that it hasn't been cleansed in awhile. I don't think Tessa gets up here much. It's mostly Chet and his guy friends.”

“I have no idea what language you're speaking. But, uh, yeah. I'll go find a shirt.”

He got up and went into the bedroom. She got up, too, dug into her backpack and located a plastic bag full of white sage she'd grown and dried herself. She plucked out a bundle of it, leaned close to the fireplace and held it to the flames until it blazed up. Then she drew it close to her face and blew out the flames.

Thick swirls of fragrant smoke wafted from the bundle. She smiled, satisfied, and walked around the room, wafting the smoke high and low and blowing it into the corners.

She felt his eyes on her within a minute or so. He'd come out of the bedroom, a shirt on, but unbuttoned, thank the Gods. He stood there in the bedroom doorway, flipping the cuffs of the flannel shirt's sleeves back, and watching her.

“Is it just me, or is that stuff as illegal as the hawk feather?”

She grinned, knowing sarcasm when she heard it. “It's sage. I'm smudging the place to get rid of negativity.” She continued around the house, moving into the kitchen, back through the living room and into the bedroom before ending where she had begun. “You move counterclockwise when you're getting rid of things.” She leaned close to the fireplace, and dropped the remaining piece of sage into the fire. “For the spirits. Thanks.”

“You're an interesting woman, Selene.” He sat on the sofa, took his bowl of stew from a coffee table that was made of one huge slab of a giant tree.

“I'm glad you think so.”

She sank onto the sofa beside him, reaching for the apple she'd stashed in her bag. “Vegetarian,” she said. “I found the beef stew in the kitchen.”

“It has to beat hospital food.” He took a bite, nodded. “Not bad. So what do you normally do after smudging the place with stinky smoke?”

“Refill it with positive energy.”

“Aha. And how do you do that?”

“Lots of ways. Play music you love, fill the house with laughter, with joy, with friends. Or do something powerful and positive in the space you've cleansed. Like singing or dancing or—”

“Or sex,” he said.

She met his eyes, held them. “How did you know that?”

“Lucky guess. Why, was I right?”

She had to look away. “Yeah. It's…probably the best way of all.”

“Well, what do you know?” He ate in silence for a while.

She tried to do the same, but her stomach was doing odd things inside her. She would like to get to know this man, to ask him about himself. Hell, it made sense, didn't it? Shouldn't she get to know him a little before taking him to bed? Shouldn't she learn something about him before she let herself fall head over heels in love with him?

Or was that lust? And what difference did it make, because she would certainly love him sooner or later, either way. He was her destiny.

But it felt kind of cheap to be this hot for him, even if he was her soul mate, when she knew nothing about him: where he was from, what he did for a living, what he liked, what he believed in. If he was her destiny, she ought to know those things. And so much more. But he couldn't answer those questions right now. In fact, he probably knew less about himself than she did. He knew nothing about his past. He was pretty sketchy on his present—wasn't even certain whose side Selene was truly on. And he knew nothing about his future.

She did. She knew all about that. He was hers. Forever.

“You're staring at me again.”

Yeah, at his mouth this time. Imagining what it was going to be like the first time he kissed her. She told herself not to rush things. After all, he didn't know he was her fate. She didn't want him to think she was easy.

“Sorry.” She returned her attention to her apple and made an effort to eat it, but gave up after only a few bites.

He set his bowl down. Empty. “So you're not hungry?”

“Too nerved up to eat, I guess.”

“Yeah, I figured you might be wondering what the hell you got yourself into here, about now.”

She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“Just that you must be realizing by now that you're up here in the middle of nowhere with a complete stranger. And that ought to scare you, if you have any sense.”

“Well, I must not have any sense, then, because it doesn't.”

“No? Well, just in case, Selene, I'll tell you what I can. I don't know much about myself, but I can promise you're safe with me. At least—I wouldn't hurt you. I don't feel the slightest inkling to do you any harm.”

She nodded. “I know I'm safe with you.”

He lifted his brows. “You do?”

“Yeah. I'm not stupid enough that I'd have brought you up here if I thought otherwise. You'll learn, in time, that I'm pretty…intuitive, Cory.”

“And you trust that intuition, even when common sense disagrees?”

“Absolutely. It's never failed me yet.” She took his empty bowl, and handed him her apple. “Here, finish this.”

“No, I'm good.”

“Okay.” She took the bowl and half-eaten apple back into the kitchen. He got up and followed her, stood leaning in the doorway while she tossed the remnants of the apple into a garbage bag, carried the bowl to the sink.

“So what's got you so nervous, then?”

“I'm not sure yet,” she said. And that was a lie, so she tried to backtrack and tell the truth. More of the truth, at least. “I imagine part of it is being hauled into the police station and questioned like a criminal last night. And part of it is having my family know I'm a Witch and my mother's reaction to that.” She turned and leaned back on the sink. “It's odd, I've always been completely open about what I do. Just never told them that it had a name before. It's the word that's throwing them.
Witchcraft.
You'd think they could see that, wouldn't you? It's just a word. A widely misunderstood one.”

“Uh-huh.” He came to where she stood, reached past her to work the hand pump that was mounted to the sink until water flowed into it, icy cold. He was very close to her. His shoulder brushed hers, and she didn't move away. “So what sorts of things do you do? Besides dancing naked in the moonlight, I mean.”

She watched him. He was washing the bowl now, in the cold water, using a bit of the dishwashing detergent that stood there on the sink. He didn't seem to mind that his side was touching hers, and she certainly didn't. “We don't usually do the nudity thing. It was just a lark.”

“Hey, I'm not complaining.” She smiled up at him, and for a moment, their eyes met and held. “You're a…beautiful woman, Selene.”

“I'm glad you think so.” She lowered her gaze, and the moment faded.

“So what else? Do you cast spells?”

“Sure, when it's called for.”

“So if I misbehave, I could wake up on a lily pad with an appetite for flies?”

“No. We never do harm. That's the core tenet of the Craft.” She glanced up to see he was surprised. “Didn't know that, did you? People think Witches are all about hexing and cursing. But it's absolutely the opposite. We cast spells for change, when that change serves the greater good.”

“And never for selfish reasons?”

“Sure. We're human. But we always have to weigh our personal wants and needs against the greater good. If they conflict, we have to let it go.”

“I see. That's a heavy burden. You ever get it wrong? Do something you think is for good that turns out to have been a mistake?”

“It happens. We have to be willing to accept the consequences. You know whatever you put out returns to you threefold. Taking action for change is a risk. It's always a risk. You mess up, you reap the karma. If we mess up, we get messed up in return.”

“Wow. That's a lot to think about for you, then, isn't it?”

“It becomes second nature. Besides, with great power comes great responsibility.”

“That's from Spiderman, isn't it?”

She shot him a look. “You remember that, huh? I guess your brain hasn't been wiped entirely clean, then.”

“Guess not.” He took a towel from the rack, dried the bowl and handed it to her. She turned away from him to put it in the cupboard where she'd found it, though moving away from his warmth was the last thing she wanted to do. “So do you have a plan?” he asked.

“Tons of them.”

“I'll bet. But I meant for tomorrow. Let's start there.”

She nodded. “I think tomorrow we should go back to the falls. Take a look around those woods, if we can avoid the cops. See if we can backtrack a little, find where you were coming from, and maybe pick up a clue.”

“Don't you think the police have already done that?”

“Sure. But they aren't me.”

“They sure as hell aren't.”

She let her eyes wander down his body, then stopped short at the white bandages around his waist, visible where his shirt hung, still unbuttoned. They were splotched with red. “Cory, you're bleeding”

He glanced down. “It's fine.”

“No, it's not. I'm going to go see what this place has for first aid supplies. Something I probably should have thought of sooner. I could run out and find a drug store if—”

He crossed the room, put a hand on her shoulder. “It's fine. Use that intuition of yours, if you don't believe me.”

She would, if she could quiet her mind long enough to hear it. “Are you in any pain?”

“No.”

“Would you admit it if you were?”

He smiled a little. “Probably.”

She thinned her lips. He was standing too close to her to enable her to think straight. “I'd feel better if you'd let me take a look at it.”

“You can take a look at anything you want, Selene.”

He was staring at her lips now, and she thought he was thinking about kissing her. And probably doubting whether it was wise to tangle this thing up with sex, when he wasn't even sure if he could trust her yet. She wanted him to kiss her. But it would lead to more, and he was in no condition for what she had in mind.

To save him having to make the decision, she made it for him, by putting her palms on his chest to keep him from coming any closer. And that was a huge mistake, because, damn, his skin felt good underneath her hands.

He swallowed hard. She felt his heart beating, strong and steady, and the warmth of his flesh against her palms, and she almost swayed closer.

He put his hands on her shoulders, maybe to steady her, or keep her at a distance, or maybe to pull her closer. Before he could do any of those things, she said, “You had surgery today.” As if that were the topic under discussion.

“Minor surgery. A few stitches.”

“A few stitches that are already bleeding through.”